


Under pale moonlight

by Hakyeonsmelanin



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Just tragic really, Mutual Pining, Pining Joker (DCU), Prostitution, Sex Work, Smut, Social Anxiety, Unrequited Love, clownery luv xx, please read this I have a test tomorrow but I chose to write this instead of revising, reader likes Arthur but doesn’t like him and then she likes him but then she doesn’t like him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 05:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21069452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakyeonsmelanin/pseuds/Hakyeonsmelanin
Summary: Your pity for him knows no bounds.OrArthur solicits a prostitute.





	Under pale moonlight

Under pale moonlight, he stands with a bouquet of dying carnations.

You blink.

”That for me?” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, head hung low like a dog under the gaze of his master. You eye him in surprise, it isn’t everyday a client treats you to flowers. 

“_Ha!_“ he strains out, eyes screwing shut. Self preservation and muscle memory go hand in hand. You take a step back, instinctively, and watch him shrink into himself a little more. He looks disturbed by his own outburst.

”Uh, yeah.” He hands them to you with eager eyes, the eyes of a child awaiting his mother’s approval, the eyes of an pet that expects a treat— _not_ the eyes of a man who is soliciting a prostitute. Still, you smile politely. It’s an awfully sweet gesture.

”Thank you, honey. That’s very kind of you.”

His gaze is intrusive, unblinking as you bring the bouquet up to your nose and inhale. You wait for him to speak, wait for any indication that he wants what you have to offer. Nothing.

”Thirty for a handjob, fourty for a blowjob and a hundred for an hour’s worth of sex. Any special requests and I’ll have to charge extra, given they’re reasonable.” The unnamed man looks perturbed at your recitation, mouth ajar and brows raised, before digging his hands into his pocket and pulling out a hundred dollar bill. 

Courageous on his part, you think to yourself, to pay so much his first time. He’s a nervous little thing. It emanates off of him, taut, tight tension like a spring about to snap.

The walk to the motel is silent. The clerk at the desk raises a brow at the sight of you, the illicit nature of your meeting is crystal clear and Honey’s cheeks burn with shame. “Double or single bed.” She drawls out. He only hunches over, shame already weighing heavy on his shoulders and you’re the one to answer with a perfect, pretty smile.

”Single, please.”

He can’t keep his eyes off of you. Trodding ahead of him, his gaze burns into your back. Keeping some sort of interpersonal space between you and your clients is a laughable concept, but in the sex industry, it’s what keeps you breathing. Stay alert, stay alive, you’ve always told yourself and it hasn’t failed you just yet.

Honey trails behind and struggles to fit the key inside the lock. He chuckles breathlessly, nervously and even drops it at one point. Patiently, you smile and hold out your palm. The curve of his own lips falls. He’s embarrassed. 

”Before we start, I have a couple of ground rules,” He takes a seat on the bed and wrings his hands together. 

This man, this ghostly, miserable man, is a virgin. You can feel it in your bones, you can see it in the nervous fumbling of his fingers and the thought makes you cringe inwardly. He isn’t the first and won’t be the last, but it’s always sad to see someone so desperate for intimacy. You shouldn’t be the one to take this from him.

The flowers rest on a drawer next to the bed. You’d better wrap this up quickly so you can put them in water.

”No kissing on the mouth, no exchange of bodily fluids and I need you to wear protection. Have you brought some?” He nods meekly and you make a noise of approval.

”If at any time I’m made to feel uncomfortable, I’m going to leave. Okay?” His eyes widen, body jerking backwards in horror and from his mouth, spews an incoherent mess.

”Oh, I’m not— I would never and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—“

A click of your tongue and he’s silent.

”You’re so tense, honey. Let me loosen you up a little.”

Cool fingertips work against the cotton of his shirt. It’s remarkably flimsy, you wonder how he hasn’t frozen to death just yet. He gulps at the proximity and you smile encouragingly, before placing an experimental kiss against the firm column of his throat.

”Oh—“ he makes a strange, quiet sound, reminiscent of arousal. He’s awkwardly bony, limbs resting just above your waist, touch frighteningly light. His modesty is hilarious but you find it would be inappropriate to double over in laughter whilst working so you settle for licking a stripe down his neck.

What a funny guy.

It’s when you’re sucking at his adam’s apple, rubbing the tightness of his crotch that you hear it again.

_”Hahahahaha!”_

It doesn’t stop.

You get up, ready to leave. He has a strange, off-putting quality to him and that laugh— that diabolical laugh— isn’t quelling your worries. The money isn’t worth your life, you decide.

”N-no! I have a cond— a condition!” He practically flings the card at you. Staring at it carefully, you decide to pick it up. 

_Please forgive my laughter! I have a condition (more on back)_

You wonder how many others have had to hold this card.

_It's a medical condition causing sudden, frequent, uncontrollable laughter that doesn’t match how you feel. It can happen in people with a brain injury or certain neurological conditions._

It dies down, after a lifetime. His cheeks are ruddy, mouth gaping for air and eyes teary, sunken. He looks as though he’s on the verge of death.

”I-I’m...sorry. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.” His lips set into a deep frown and you remark to yourself that it ages him considerably. He’s silent for a few moments before he finally asks in a quiet, fearful voice: 

  
”Can we—can we talk instead?”  


  
You find out that his name is, in fact, Arthur and not honey, that he’s thirty-three years old and works as a party clown downtown, although he dreams of branching into stand up. He lives with his elderly mother who suffers from a plethora of illnesses and keeps a joke-book in case he’s hit with random inspiration.  


”My mother tells me I was born to bring laughter to the world.” He beams at you, a smile tugging at his lips. It’s an ugly thing, with his paper thin lips and disproportionate curvature.

”I’m sure you will.”

~

She does more than just hear his voice.

She listens to him.

~

This time, he’s brought you yellow chrysanthemums.

“Arthur?” 

His hair has been combed back and he’s wearing a tighter, iron pressed shirt. A ragged coat hangs off his gaunt arms. A disquieting nausea fills you. Has he tried to dress up? 

”Hi, Amelia.” He gives a shy smile, like a schoolboy passing a love letter to his crush. What an atrocious loneliness he suffers from, you mourn internally.

“You’re sweet, Arthur, but you don’t need to buy me flowers every time.”

He stills for a moment.

”Do they...make you uncomfortable?”

The flowers are beautiful, sweet smelling and add the most gorgeous splash of colour to your shitty one-bedroom flat. Grey walls. Grey flooring. Grey curtains. Grey skies. Until Arthur. Then there was a luscious crimson to brighten up your home.

“No, not at all. I’d rather you not waste your money though. I’ll still service you without them.”

”Oh,” he smiles. “Okay then!”

He coughs hoarsely, the motion wracking his entire body. Arthur is unspeakably weak, a concoction of tragedy and decadent sadness. Your pity for him knows no bounds. 

”Sorry, I’m sick. I’ll come back next week if you like. I don’t want you to catch—“

A hundred dollars sounds wonderful right now.

”It’s fine, honey. Just talking, right?”

He confirms with a bright smile and a wrinkle of his aquiline nose.

It’s endearing, in the most pathetic of ways.

~

”Do you ever feel like you don’t exist?”

Furrowing your brows, you heave a sigh.

”Do you?”

”Sometimes. Not right now, though. Right now, I know we’re real.”

~

Bloody rivulets stream around the carriage, bodies falls to the floor and discordant sobbing echoes from the mouths of men who are past the point of redemption.

Arthur stares down at him. Haughty derision is a thing of the past and now he’s an insignificant ant under a magnifying glass and all Arthur can think is_burnburnburnburnburnburnburnburn—_

Some people don’t deserve to draw breath.

He shoots.

Under the dim, fluorescent flicker of ceiling lights, he dances. Elegance, grace, refinement wash over him, like cool ocean waves. Arthur Fleck is dead.

One step. Two step. A twirl here and a twirl there.

With a smile, he extends a palm and you step forward, intertwining his fingers with your own.

~

”Arthur, you seem happy.” His mother comments, head craning uncomfortably to get a good look at him. He doesn’t even glance at her.

”I’ve met someone, Mother.”

~

”No.”

You blink in confusion. Outside, the rain batters the window panes with a sudden viciousness.

”No?”

He furrows his brows. Tonight, there’s a hidden confidence about him— a spring in his step— and it scares you. The smile on his face is too wide, his shoulders have broadened with certainty and his fingernails are long, cuticles untouched after years of chewing.

He hasn’t laughed once.

”I’m bored of talking now,” he drawls out, teeth gleaming with spittle and perfectly pointed. You swallow down your unease, the giant, choking stone that has developed in your throat and tell yourself that this was inevitable. It was only a matter of time before he grew hungry for more.

A hungry man is a dangerous man.

”Sure.” You nod and begin to play at the straps of your dress.

”Let me,” he stalks closer, towering over you (when was he this tall?) and begins to peel them off. Frozen. Afraid. You let him.

“_Amelia,_” he breathes out. “That’s not your name, is it?”

Your eyes are wide, trained on the bright, red roses that lie on the cabinet and fabric falls to the floor.

Carnations symbolise sadness.

Chrysanthemums symbolise friendship.

Roses symbolise love.

No. This was never supposed to happen. He’s a client. Just a client, no more and no less. An insurmountable rage fills you— how dare he cross the line that you had so carefully, so clearly drawn out?

Clad in only lace lingerie, garters adorning each firm, tawny thigh, you feel yourself crumble under his gaze. His eyelids are heavy with lust, tongue darting out and he licks them in a deliberately slow way.

”Lie down, Arthur.” You force out, playing the role of the dirty, debauched slut.

He complies, resting his head comfortably against the wall and you get to work. The door is so close yet so far; completely within your grasp and somehow, an entire universe away. You stare at it, longingly, as though it were a lover.

”Amelia is a pretty name, but it’s not you.”

You take his cock in your mouth. Anything to shut him up. Anything to hear that god-awful, incessant laughter.

Licking, kissing, sucking, slurping— you strip him of this horrific display of confidence, reduce him back to the measly, anxious thing he is. Arthur takes your hair in his fists, snapping his hips upwards in a a series of uncontrollable spasms.

He’s so hot, so compliant under your touch. Writhing and wriggling like he exists for you, and only you. His size is rather impressive, too. He fills your mouth considerably with his thickness and only with the practised ease of a whore, do you refrain from choking.

He laughs when he cums.

It’s breathy and playful, unlike the usual nervous rumbling that bubbles from his stomach.

You clamber ontop of him, sinking down onto his length. It feels good, he stretches you out so nicely but one look at his face and all arousal you feel dissipates into thin air. 

He looks like he’s in heaven.

“Stop it. Stop looking at me like that.”

He only moans in response, hands wandering up and cupping your breast. The romanticism in his smile, the gentleness in his touch adds an ironic perverseness to this rendezvous. You know this is the first and last time you’ll ever have sex with this man.

Shame engulfs you upon climax. Uncontrollably, you contract around him. Letting out a stupidly loud cry, you allow yourself to fall into wholehearted unprofessionalism. You’ve _never_ orgasmed whilst working. Not until now.

Climbing off of him, you turn in the opposite direction, unable to look him in the face. Luscious, full red roses stare back at you.

”That was amazing...”

”Give me my money.”

Springing up, you feel his seed leak out of you. For the first time in your career, you truly feel filthy. Jerking your dress back on and looping your arms through the sleeves of your jacket, you try to produce some semblance of optimism. You try to calm the wild rushing of blood through your veins, the lazy afterglow of pleasure that’s creeping through you and the desire to climb under those bedsheets and hold Arthur in your arms. 

”What?” Arthur’s glowing, sweat dripping from his cheekbones and a confused smile playing on his lips.

”One hundred dollars. Now, please.”

He hands you the money and the door slams shut.

~

He cries at night.

A staccato rhythm, monstrous and irate.

Behind him, the record player spins.

_It's a Barnum and Bailey world_

_Just as phony as it can be_

_But it wouldn't be make-believe_

_If you believed in me_

~

Resting on your window pane, lies an empty vase.

You miss him.

~

Under pale moonlight, a clown asks you for one last dance.

”Arthur?”

“_Honey,_” he mocks, a cheeky smile appearing on his face. The makeup suits him, in a strange, incomprehensible way.

“Do you know how to dance?”

You shake your head lightly.

He tuts, a teacher scolding an idle student. You can see the disapproval even under all those layers of face paint.

”I’ll teach you.”

Under the twinkling night sky, you experience true intimacy.

You move together in perfect synchrony. One step. Two step. A twirl here and a twirl there. He raises you high into the stars and dips you low into the belly of the earth. The music reaches a startling, boisterous crescendo and his lips find their way into your own.

He kisses you like a man starved.

You fall in love.

”Y/N.” You submit and he repeats your name a thousand times over, as though he would forget it, as though you would cease to exist, if he didn’t.

”My name is Joker.” He calls out when he leaves, sauntering away into the dark.

You don’t understand.

~

Murray Franklin’s corpse is a grotesque thing. Bits of his brain are splattered around him, a putrid pink. Rivers of blood ooze out of the mangled flesh between his brows and trickles down into his eyes.

God, they’re so wide. So endlessly wide.

He dances up to the camera, feet manoeuvring deftly around one another and clutches the camera before the screen cuts to black.

Tears fall, you retch and stumble over to the bathroom, doubling over and vomit spilling out. It’s lumpy and sharp and you think you’re going to die.

Positive.

The fucking test said positive.

Under pale moonlight, you had met The Devil himself.


End file.
